PhD
by Chewing Gum
Summary: “I’m a doctor, not a...” Watson attended medical school to become a doctor, and yet sometimes he wonders if others even know he is one... Largely random drabbles.
1. Gardener

_AN: This is a little meme Kadigan prodded me into doing after my Dr. McCoy reference in "Best Laid Plans". If you want to join in, hop on the wagon! The basic concept is including the line "I'm a doctor, not another profession/object/person!" into the story._

**Gardener**

It had been Holmes's fault, once it all boiled down. He informs me a day in advance that he will be gone for two weeks on some government mission (he claimed that he rallied for my involvement but had been denied; I believed that he decided a short separation would be healthy for us after our latest case that had broken my wrist).

He had rattled off a list of instructions without having the courtesy to write them down. Remember to pay the Irregulars, contact Mycroft with any time-sensitive cases, keep an eye out for a man with red hair and a missing ear and don't ask why... I suppose the phrase "water my belladonna plants" might have been in there somewhere.

He had been experimenting with those plants for three months in his bedroom, and as I rarely ventured there (I'd been in enough war zones during my service, thank you very much), I had only seen the deadly window garden a handful of times.

Out of sight, out of mind, as they say.

When he returned, sporting a black eye and three stitches on his forehead, he went into his bedroom to drop off his luggage.

It was then that I had an inkling that there was something I had been supposed to do.

He emerged from his shambolic domain, and once he cleared his throat I lowered my paper, noting that he was glaring quite furiously at me.

"I did not think you'd want a fuss made about your homecoming," I replied, thinking this was about my lack of enthusiasm. Yes, I was thrilled to have him back, but damned if I would let _him_ know that. "Mrs. Hudson is backing a cake, though."

He stamped back to his bedroom in a rather childish temper, coming back carrying a pot occupied with a drying twig planted in sand-dry soil.

I buried myself once more in the paper.

"Watson...!"

"Damn it all, Holmes, I'm a doctor, not a gardener!"


	2. Call Boy

****

Call Boy

It is a well-known fact that I am not fond of women. More specifically, I am not fond of women who insist upon being overbearingly feminine. I simply cannot see what makeup and tight-lacing helps. While on the topic, may I say that all that coquettish batting of long eyelashes is far more annoying than attractive.

Because the fairer sex was much more Watson's area of expertise, it was he who was sent to talk to our latest client when I suspected she had not told us the full story about her late uncle's will. I had a theory that she was lying about something to preserve her family's dignity, and I required all the facts if I was to be expected to solve the case.

The countess was a woman tiptoeing towards middle age and denying it firmly, using every beauty product and pounds of powder to back up her insistences. She was married, but the stories on the Ton said that the count had not been on English soil in a good five years.

Although I was sorely tempted to listen to the conversation with my ear pressed up against the door, I instead gave my long-suffering friend a scrap of dignity and enjoyed a glass of excellent brandy in the sitting room until the unconventional interrogation was over with.

When the butler led Watson to me, I had to stifle an entirely cruel snicker. Someone with very red nail polish had attempted to wrestle the poor man's collar off, he was scented heavily with perfume, and jaw and cheek were peppered with very unladylike lipstick.

"Come, old chap," I said as I rose, struggling to keep a straight face. "You may tell me what you learned in the hansom."

Watson growled with uncharacteristic malice, wrenching his askew collar back into place, whipping out his handkerchief for to remove traces of his assault from his face. "I only did this because lives hang in the balance. I'm a doctor, Holmes, not a call boy!"


	3. Tracking Dog

**Tracking Dog**

"_Achoo_!"

Holmes glanced over to me, arching an eyebrow at my misery. "Is that starting again, Watson? It really is most annoying."

"I can hardly… _Achoo_! Help it, Holmes," I grumbled, pulling my much-used handkerchief from my pocket and blowing my nose into it. My eyes were watering, my nose was so clogged I could not smell a thing, and my "friend" only remarked that my suffering was annoying him.

I made a mental note to check the next paper I saw to see if someone more civil was in want of a roommate.

"Odd… You're rarely prompted to an allergic reaction by anything, and yet in the last two days…" Holmes's narrow face lit up with the glow of a puzzle solved. "My dear Watson! Yesterday, Dagwood's aftershave was likely what was making you sneeze! You must smell that now!"

"I can't smell anything, Holmes." This was followed by four sneezes in rapid succession.

He either did not hear me or paid me no mind. I was betting on the former. "All we need to do is see which direction makes your allergies flare more, and that should lead up straight to Dagwood! You can _sniff_ him out!"

I blew my nose again, glaring at him through red-streaked eyes. "Blast it all, Holmes, I am a doctor, not a tracking dog!"


	4. Waiter

**Waiter**

"I could have pretended to be a member!" I hissed, fidgeting in my disguise. "Club rules forbid anyone from looking at one another; how would they know I wasn't a member?"

"Because the bi-monthly newsletter always lists the number of members, and the members who prepared the seating would notice one extra guest," Mycroft replied, slowly and almost wearily as if he were instructing a dull child. Then again, compared to him I was little more than that. "It would have been too risky to have someone give up their seat and thereby let them know something was amiss, and even this lot would notice my absence."

I sighed. Of course Mycroft Holmes had thought of every possible solution. It was not as if this was the first time I had been required to go undercover.

"Cheer up, old man!" Holmes grinned, much more enthusiastic in this role than I.

"You look quite smart in black and white," his brother offered, no doubt trying to salve my wounded pride.

"Really? I think he looks like a penguin."

"_Sherlock_..."

Forty-five minutes into the annual Diogenes club banquet (the room as silent as the grave, of course), I was passing our suspect and leaned in what I thought was only slightly to steal a glimpse at his cufflinks. My balance was thrown by the heavy silver platter loaded with water glasses, the ice in them tinkled out a haphazard melody.

I fell. The tray fell with me. The sound of the smashing was nothing short of astounding.

I made a beeline for the kitchen, my face so hot with embarrassment it almost dried the water that soaked me.

Mycroft joined me shortly, and from behind him I could hear many repressed chortles of laughter. The portly man scrounged up a towel for me. "Well... At least you gave it your best."

I glared furiously under a fringe of dripping hair. "I told you before, Mycroft! I'm a doctor, not a waiter!"

My indigence, however, only made an escaped smile spread onto his face, and I stormed out the servant's entrance of the Diogenes club.


	5. Zookeeper

**Zookeeper**

After a long day at my practice, I trudged home to Baker Street, wanting nothing more than a warm fire and a cup of fine brandy. I bid good evening to Mrs. Hudson, stalked up the stairs, nodded towards Holmes (buried in a paper, as he often was), and entered my bedroom.

I then quickly darted from my bedroom and slammed the door behind me.

The sudden noise made my companion look up. "Oh, hello, Watson. Didn't hear you come in."

"Holmes…" I began, teeth gritted so tightly than my jaws ached. "Explain."

"Explain wha… Oh!" He snapped his fingers as if only just remember. "Yes, I should have warned you… Noella will be staying her for a few days; my client assures me she is not safe from the men who wish to capture her while she is in his house."

"Why is _she_ in my _bed_?" I hissed. Holmes had done a great many things in the time I had known him, but this nearly tore it.

"I suppose she prefers it. She wandered in there some time ago and fell asleep, and Mr. Gamen said she's been too stressed as of late to rest so I thought it best to leave her. Watson, old chap, don't give me that look! What was I to do, turn her away? Mr. Gamen says she's perfectly trained and as gentle as a kit, and she's displayed nothing short of that since she came.

I opened my bedroom door slowly with the utmost of caution, attempting to fully comprehend the situation. There was a massive orange and black jungle cat (apparently named Noella) in our flat, sleeping on my bed with her huge head on my pillow, lips pulled back slightly in repose to display long slivers of deadly ivory teeth.

I shut the door again, much more quietly this time.

"Holmes, no."

"What do you mean, 'no'?"

"I mean _no_. Absolutely _not_! I will deal with many things on a case, but I am a doctor, not a zookeeper!"


	6. Tiger Food

__

AN: Part Two of the last chapter; I simply had to use Noella again.

****

Tiger Food

My heart very nearly stopped when I woke up level with a pair of yellow predator's eyes, and I scrambled from my bed so fast that I rammed my head quite firmly against the wall, letting out a loud yelp of pain.

Noella gave a flick of her tail, unimpressed.

The huge beast watched me intently as I shaved (no doubt sizing me up as a meal, the vicious thing), only dismounting the bed when I went into the dining room for breakfast.

In addition to our meal, Mrs. Hudson (who had been as fond of the animal as me before the hulking animal had won her over by giving her hands a thorough licking with its sandpaper tongue) had left a dish of its recommended diet; ground meat mixed with grain and dried vegetables.

I must say, I was surprised at how neatly she ate.

"A beautiful creature, isn't she?" mused Holmes over a slice of toast, tossing the tiger a sausage once she had licked her pan clean. The china rattled when she landed from her lunge to catch the treat. "So majestic... My client found her near death on holiday in India, injured by poachers, and smuggled her back. I'd hate to see such a beautiful animal hurt by someone with a personal vendetta against a human." The tone of his voice implied he had volunteers our flat and not one of his boltholes for boarding merely to observe the creature.

Trying to occupy myself with breakfast, I merely murmured something in return, noting with amusement that perhaps there was room for one more female in my friend's life. _What on earth is it with Holmes and redheads?_

I absently knocked the butter knife off the table, bending over to get it without thought. The same eyes I had woken to were staring at me; Noella was apparently hopeful for more sausages

We stared at each other for several moments before the deadly creature licked me from my chin to my hairline, large tongue so coarse it almost hurt.

Holmes was beside himself with laughter. "She's fond of you, Watson! The fairer sex was always your forte!"

I glared, wiping my face with a napkin. "Holmes, I am a _doctor, _not tiger food!"


	7. Veterinarian

**Veterinarian**

Watson suspected that when Mycroft had selected a kitten for his wife, he had chosen the Siamese breed for its distinctive looks and because having such a rare cat was a status symbol. If he was planning on buying another animal, he would have to encourage him to select a breed for its temperament.

To his credit, Marco Polo was usually well behaved. He had been socialized quite thoroughly by the stream of guests Ann Marie entertained, not to mention her affections for him had bound his loyalty to her. His neutering had likely had a hand (or a paw?) in his normally easy-going, even refined, personality.

At the moment, however, he was displaying the loud vocalizations and the aggression his breed was known for, yowling loudly almost like a distressed baby and clawing at anything that got in his way. Watson's hands were now marked with the cat's battle insignia.

"Keep him still!" Watson yelped as a set of fangs sank into his hands once again. It was like trying to examine up a wriggling, unruly child. If that child had been gifted with filed teeth and an array of tiny knives. "In the future, would you remember that I am a doctor, not a veterinarian!"

"I am sorry about this, doctor," panted Mycroft Holmes, bleeding almost as much as Watson. "But he had that lump on him and he kept pawing at it, I thought he might take it clean off... Ann would be so distraught if anything happened to him... The veterinarian we see is on holiday, and so I thought..."

There came the sound of the front door opening. "Mycroft? Dr. Watson? I heard someone yelping from the walkway..."

At his mistress's voice, the feline eunuch finally managed to wriggle out of their grasps, giving Watson a parting swipe across the chest and slitting four neat lines into his jacket.

Ann Marie entered the room, the hell beast that had been previously torturing them beyond their limits in her arms, purring ecstatically. Her eyes widened at the sight of the two men. "What on earth have you two been doing to yourselves!"

"He said he had a lump on his underside," Watson managed to get out, resisting the urge to skin the animal right out of its cream and brown coat.

"Oh, another one of those?" As if he were nothing more than a towel, the girl flipped the cat over onto his back with his full consent, plucked a pair of scissors from the counter, and neatly slipped off a hard mat of fur. "Our neighbours have the most ghastly burr bushes, he's always getting into them but he can usually get them out himself..." She paused, seeing the looks of the men. "... What?"


	8. Chef

_AN: Simply a note; these take place in any and every universe. Obviously, the last chapter was a crossover with "Perpetual Anticipation", and this one makes a tiny reference to pre-"What Words Fail Of". If it matters, you'll know which one it's set it. If it doesn't matter, just place it where you want it._

**Chef**

Holmes had a reputation of being adverse to food at many times, but currently he had just returned from a long day of stalking out a suspect and hunger pains grabbed at his belly like greedy, clawed hands. He had been looking forward to some of Mrs. Hudson's partridge, her cranberry stuffing… Perhaps even a slice of coffee cake if he was lucky.

Then he remembered that Mrs. Hudson was in Scotland visiting her kin and that he himself had assured her that the two bachelors could manage fine for a few days, that there was no need to go to the cost of hiring a replacement for her holiday.

His father had always said his downfall would be his mouth.

Looking at what Watson placed before him on the moderate china, he believed it. "And just what is this?"

All but throwing himself into the chair, his stormy mood clearly worn on his sleeve, he scowled at his companion. "You're the detective. Deduce."

Prodding the charred bit of flesh with his fork, his dark brow arched. "Mycroft is the one with experience in arson cases, Watson, not I."

The scowl increased to an all-out glower. "I did the best I could, Holmes! I'm a doctor, not a chef! It's likely just the outside…" He used his knife to scrape away at the charred bits, hoping to reach tender meat. He made it through to the plate without finding any.

Holmes had watched with respectful patience before speaking. "The Tomb's special tonight is game hen with chestnut stuffing."

"I'll get my coat."


	9. Au Pair

**Au Pair**

"I really am sorry about this, Mycroft," Watson offered weakly. The elder Holmes did not at all look happy, and while it was not his fault, he had begun to feel responsible for Holmes over the years. No doubt the other man knew the feeling himself.

The portly man pinched the bridge of his nose. "You owe me no apology, Doctor. Sherlock, on the other hand, owes me many and a firstborn."

"I doubt you could ever collect on the last one."

"True." Mycroft glanced through the door, where a good number of the Irregulars were preparing for sleep. Although he was not happy to play host to the urchins even for a night, even he was not so coldhearted as to send them out into a blizzard. "I merely wish my brother knew that I am a civil servant, not an innkeeper."

"I am a doctor, not an au pair, but it's never seemed to stop him before." I glanced around Mycroft's bedroom, knowing that the spare room had already been claimed. "Er… Only one bed left."

"Take it; I'm going to my club. They have decent rooms."

"In this weather?"

"It isn't far. Besides, I do not want to deal with the creatures in the morning. For their own safety."


	10. Nurse

**Nurse**

"Oi don't wanna die…!" wailed the little Irregular, attempting to bury his currently bleeding head into the girl's housecoat. "Grandmum'll kill me if Oi die!"

Ann Marie didn't mind; the garment was getting rather old anyway, and the boy needed any comfort he could get. She doubted the choked mouthful of brandy was doing much to numb the pain as she stitched up the second of two gashes on his head, earned from an ambush by a rival pack of urchins. She kissed the top of his head briefly before continuing her work. "You're not dying, Alfie. You bleed a lot when you hit your head. I'm almost done. Mycroft…!"

The rotund man was most certainly not in a good mood, his home being currently populated with a good number of small, bloody children, and they'd had the indecency to come calling in the middle of the night. "Bloody" not being used as an expletive. There was a pile of them in the spare bedroom, and they occupied most of the surface space in the sitting room. However, he was not about to send them off to die on his stoop, nor was he going to repress his wife's mothering instincts. She knew where he slept, after all.

"I understand the fresh warm water, the thread, and the new bottle of alcohol," he frowned, setting the requested items on the deacon's bench in their entryway, currently the medic station. "But what's in the tin from the kitchen cupboard?"

Ann Marie pried the lid off of the metal box, taking out a ginger snap from it. "Now are you going to try and stop weeping and be a brave boy?"

Alfie nodded eagerly, his tears stemming as he began to munch on the treat, allowing her to clean up his wounds with only the odd flinch.

"You're next, Wiggins," she sighed as she simultaneously cradled the boy and washed the remainder of the blood away. "You're worse than a lot of the others are, I wish you'd have let me tend to you earlier."

Wiggins, their fearless leader, a compact pressed tightly upon his head, was firm. "The younger ones before me, mum. They need it most."

"We've discussed the 'mum' issue, young man."

"Well, you are startin' ta look the part," remarked Alfie from her lap, eyes shifting from the rest of the cookies to her protruding belly.

She found it impossible to be cross with a child for speaking the truth, so she merely stuck another ginger snap in his mouth after she had bandaged his head and shooed him off. "Go get some sleep, Alfie. There's a settee in my parlour, but please don't muss about with my papers?"

"Right, mum!" he chirped, obviously cured of his afflictions by the healing powers of sweets, scampering off to some well-deserved sleep and letting Wiggins take his place beside the girl so that she could stitch up the deep cuts in his arm and chest.

Mycroft, meanwhile, had slipped off unnoticed. He had several more months to be able to stand children; there was no sense rushing it.

"Sorry for comin' here, mum. Your old man looked something cross," murmured the boy, downing the offered brandy and gritting his teeth. "But we didn't think we could make it to Baker Street, and the doctor said how you stitched him up all good…"

"I'm happy to help, don't you worry about that. And Mycroft looks rather cross naturally. It's rather endearing after a while."

Dr. Watson all but burst in through the front door, black bag in hand, looking very out of breath. "I'm sorry, I was out with Holmes on a case, I didn't get your note until fifteen minutes ago, and…" He blinked, looking about and seeing a noticeable lack of dying children and utter chaos. "I thought you said…"

"Oh, I've mostly got them all fixed up now. I'm just finishing William here."

He blinked. "Is… Is there anything left to do?"

"There's a few in the kitchen, the maid's getting them something to eat. They were woozy and their eyes seemed a little glassy so I thought they might have concussions and you told me it's dangerous for someone with a concussion to sleep, so I suppose you can check them out… And there's likely a few bandages that need to be changed. But other than that…"

There was one half of the doctor hollering out that he was a doctor, not a nurse, and that he was rather annoyed he had been called out to perform such menial tasks. The other half, however, was very impressed with the young woman with the bloodstained hands, and knew that in several months she would make an excellent mother.

Snagging a cookie for himself, Watson made his way to the kitchen.


End file.
